


Standard Procedure

by shipsanddip



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 03:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipsanddip/pseuds/shipsanddip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek takes a deep breath.</p><p>“Officer.”</p><p>“Sir,” the man nods. His face is stern, lips set in a straight line, making Derek‘s own smile falter. He smells faintly of coffee and motor oil. </p><p>“License and registration.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standard Procedure

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Katy (@bottomderekhale). <3
> 
> Betaed by the saintly Sheep (@sheepnamedpig) whom I can't thank enough. This fic contains situations that some may find triggering. Please see the end notes for more information.

“Finally,” Derek growls and slams down on the accelerator, wheels screeching as he bullets across the intersection. Roaring, the engine revs higher and Derek grins as he takes the turn towards the preserve. It’s thrilling to slot into fifth gear and put the car through its paces. Sinking into the seat as he climbs up the hill, the Camaro emits a dark, familiar hum.

It’s been sitting unused in the garage for some time now. A shame, 'cause it’s a great car, great for speed and maneuverability, but not so great for booster seats or soccer practice carpooling. Still, it’s a good thing he’s kept it. The SUV broke down on the freeway two days ago. The centerpiece really, of what has been a shitty week, with delayed shipments setting his work schedule way back and his eldest's temper tantrums over a missed little league game. Two nights spent carrying their youngest around the house, leeching pain away from the ear infection he’s been enduring. Derek’s more than ready for the weekend.

He’s just about to turn right into the preserve proper, leading to his own driveway when he hears sirens. Loud sirens. There’s a grey police motorcycle in his rear view mirror and the cop on it is flagging him down.

Well that’s just great. Fucking perfect.

He pulls over, barely half a mile away from home sweet home. Running his hands over his face, he breathes out into his palms. A ticket would just be the icing on this shitcake of a day. Derek drops his head back against the headrest and watches the cop dismount the bike.

It’s one of the new sports bikes, the ones they’d held those agonizingly long debates over at City Hall. They’re flashy for a small county, but with all the ‘animal attacks’ and the memory of the killing spree at the station still alive in everyone's minds, the Sheriff's Department had made a compelling argument for not just the new bikes themselves, but also the funds with which to buy them. There was no denying they got the job done. And while they were undeniably ostentatious they were also kinda, very hot.

Derek’s eyes flicker from the grey bike to its rider. The officer is wearing the blue uniform of the motorcycle unit. The one with the knee high boots and the black leather jacket that brings back fond (and not so fond) memories of a time when he himself ran around Beacon Hills in one quite similar. It’s a tight fit on the tall cop, whose broad shoulders pull the leather taut across their breadth. He’s talking into the radio transmitter attached to his shoulder lapel while fiddling with the buckle of his helmet's chinstrap. Derek taps his index finger against the wheel, narrowing his eyes at the mirror as the cop dawdles. Sometime this year would be nice.

The officer deposits his helmet on the seat and rakes his hand through short brown hair before walking up to the Camaro. Derek sighs, rolling the window down.

A standard issue navy shirt and black tie comes into view and the man leans down to put him level with Derek’s eyes. He’s still wearing his aviators and it’s a bit disconcerting to only see his own reflection mirrored in the cop’s glasses. The man’s a Deputy by the looks of it, but his name badge is out of view, covered by the leather jacket. Derek takes a deep breath.

“Officer.”

“Sir,” the man nods. His face is stern, lips set in a straight line, making Derek‘s own smile falter. He smells faintly of coffee and motor oil.

“License and registration.”

Derek gives a slight nod in return and reaches over the passenger seat, fishing the registration papers out of the glove box. His wallet is a bit trickier to get out, lodged deep in the back pocket of his jeans. Lifting his hips up, he digs for it where it’s pressed down by his weight against the seat. Finally, he pulls it out and retrieves his license, handing both over to the waiting cop.

The officer takes them in hand with a curt nod. He scans Derek’s license once and then tips his head up to look at Derek, mirrored glasses flashing in the afternoon sunlight. Back to the license again, longer this time. Derek works very hard to keep his face neutral. His license is fine. It may not hold the answers to the great questions of the universe as this cop seems to think, but it’s fine.

“Is there a problem?”

“Do you have any idea how fast you were going out of that intersection?”

Derek can’t help the slightest of winces. He knows exactly how fast he was going. 

The cop’s face hardens, his lips tight around the edges.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

Derek taps his wheel, dipping his head down and then flashes the man a sheepish but bright smile. Time to up the charm.

“I’m sorry, Officer, I’ve had a long day. Week. I’m just trying to get home.”

Maybe the guy will take pity on him if he lets genuine weariness weigh down his tone. Beacon Hill’s finest are known to be occasionally lenient when faced with serious puppy eyes. Isaac has had particular success with his.

The man frowns.

“That was a residential area you were speeding through. Kids on their bikes everywhere. Are you a family man, Mr.  Hale?”

No dice. Derek’s eyes flit briefly to his wedding band, a warm, golden constant against his skin. When he looks back up, he catches the man turn his head away from looking at the same place.

“Yes. Yes, I am,” Derek mutters, feeling embarrassed and annoyed at having his sense of guilt so easily manipulated. Fucking cops.

“Then I don’t have to ask you to imagine what a nightmare scenario hitting a kid would be.”

Derek can feel his face heat up and he scratches at one of his now undoubtedly pink ears.

“I thought not,” the Officer says before returning to his bike with Derek’s papers, boots clicking against the asphalt. Derek slumps back into his seat. It’s incredibly irritating, the amount of authority the uniform commands. He’s a fresh-faced Deputy, clearly a recent addition to the force and yet there’s an air about him that demands Derek’s attention. Even if the man’s an ass.

Rolling his neck carefully from side to side, Derek tries to release some of the tension building there. The cop’s looming has him on edge. It’s ridiculous, because while the man might be a bit taller and have some muscle on him, the difference in physical strength is laughable. He’s just a human.

That’s what Derek tells himself as the cop stops by the bike. Reaching across the seat and pulling a clipboard out of a side bag, he knocks his helmet over.

A klutz. He might be filling out that uniform but the cop’s a klutz and a dick. The officer bends down to pick up the helmet. Derek swallows shallowly and fiddles with the buttons on the stereo, even though the engine’s off.

Okay, so maybe he’s an attractive dick. Doesn’t make him less of one.

He’s got Derek’s papers attached to the clipboard now, propping his foot on the belly pan of the bike. Derek has to force himself not to notice how the navy slacks cling to the man’s thighs. They’re probably steely from riding that bike every shift. Not to mention his uh… his rear.

It’s a very nice rear.

He glances at his wedding ring. Then back at the cop.

Not breaking any vows by looking. Besides, the man ~~has a monumental~~. **Is**. Is a monumental ass.

Turning from his ride, the cop starts walking back to the Camaro and Derek carefully looks anywhere but his rearview mirror. There’s a Twinkie wrapper stuck into the gap between the passenger seat and the emergency break. Derek rolls his eyes. He knows exactly whose grubby little fingers put it there. Removing it will have to wait though, cause he’s not about to move his hands away from the wheel while he’s in the line of sight. Wouldn’t want to give the good officer any funny ideas.

“Okay Mr. Hale, I’m going to have to issue you a citation for doing 50 in a 35 zone.”

Derek clenches his jaw. Not good.

“Look officer, I’ve already got a few points against my license,” he stalls, because the man has unzipped his jacket, letting Derek glimpse the lean frame in the navy shirt. Officer Ass is built, alright. What was he talking about again? “Is there… is there anything I can do for you to maybe cut me some slack?”

The man pushes his aviators up his nose and tilts his head, face neutral.

“Are you asking me to turn a blind eye?” he says, voice sweet and slow like molasses.

Every single nerve ending in Derek’s body tingles ominously.

The Deputy bends down, leaning his forearms against the door, and the tension flares up in the back of Derek’s neck. His face feels hot and he’s not entirely sure why he so brazenly keeps trying to wiggle out of getting a freaking ticket.

“Something like that,” he manages. His own pink face stares back at him in the reflection of the aviators. Blushing harder, he focuses his gaze on the man’s mouth instead. Only for it to involuntarily flicker down the length of his pale throat. What the hell is wrong with him?

“I feel I should warn you, Mr. Hale, that attempting to bribe an officer of the law is a felony. One that comes with a two to four year prison sentence, not to mention some pretty hefty fines.”

It’s not even the words but the tone, like polished stone, that affects Derek. The heat on his face burns stronger and he immediately lowers his gaze to somewhere below the gas pedal in the footwell.

“No, of course I… I only meant…”

“I think I know what you meant, Sir,” the man cuts him off and it makes a shiver run down Derek’s spine. Not really able to face the officer again, he keeps his head down.

There’s a slight pause, only the sound of the wind flitting through the trees between them and then,

“Are you carrying anything illegal in this vehicle, Sir?

Derek snaps his head up, startled. There’s no way he can know. He’s just asking, guessing, trying to get a rise out of him. So why does Derek hesitate? He has no idea. Maybe it’s the unyielding quality of the man’s voice that draws Derek’s mind to the two shotguns loaded with wolfsbane, the medieval sword, and Lydia’s deadly concoction of nightshade under lock and key in the trunk.

He stammers.

“I…ah I…”

Officer Ass looks increasingly unhappy with him. Fuck.

“Mr. Hale?”

“I…um…no?”

The man frowns, sighing heavily.

“Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to step out of the vehicle.”

“But I…”

“Now, Sir.”

Derek stares at the wheel, stunned at the mess he’s put himself in. The Officer opens his door and motions him out. How very helpful. Shit, he’s in so much trouble. And all he wanted was to get home in time to watch the X-factor with his husband (who has seriously bad taste in Friday night entertainment and steals all the Cheetos).

Derek gets to his feet, chin against his chest as the man closes the door behind him. The hand suddenly pressed against the small of his back is startling.

“Let’s get out of the way of the traffic,” the officer says, pressing his fingers against Derek’s spine and leading him firmly around the front of the car. They come to a halt next to the passenger door. The sun is just skimming the treetops on the other side of the road. Is he going to get arrested? Is he going to have to spend the weekend in a cell? The fingers dig in deeper, making his shoulders drop. He can’t help but feel like a scolded child.

“Now,” the man starts, leaning in and raising his brows over the frame of his aviators, “do you have anything on you that could hurt me?”

Derek suppresses a snort. Only if you count razor sharp claws and fangs. Not that he’s about to tell the Deputy as much.

“No,” he says decisively, no hesitation this time. The slight smile pulling at the officer’s lips makes him feel petulant.

“Can I make sure?” the cop smiles genially, but Derek doesn't miss the ever-present edge of steel in his voice. The prick’s even got a hand on his gun. He knows he shouldn’t but Derek can’t help himself.

“I don’t know, _can_ you?” he mutters under his breath, looking up at the man defiantly.

The next thing he knows, Derek’s pushed up against the side of the car with his arm twisted behind his back.

“I don’t appreciate your attitude, Mr. Hale.”

The voice is icy and tolerates no back talk. He swallows and goes limp in the Deputy’s grasp, trying to convey how very obviously he’s not fighting the man’s bruising grip on his forearm and shoulder.

“Are you going to behave now, Mr. Hale?”

There’s still a part of him that wants to tell Officer Ass to go fuck himself but Derek resists the impulse. Not without casting a glare over his shoulder though. The broad, warm hand around his wrist squeezes in warning and Derek nods, giving in.

“Good. Hands on top of your head.”

Lifting his arms, he takes a step back from the car, to give himself some room to breath. Only with his luck can a run to drop the kids off at a sleep over turn into an episode of Cops. Oh great, now that he’s no longer pressed against it, he can see sticky fingerprints all over the tinted window. If he ever gets out of jail, he’s going to very firmly enforce the 'no eating in the car' rule. Probably with chores. It's about time his kids learned how to wash and vacuum a car, anyway.

“Interlace your fingers and keep still,” the cop says, right up against Derek’s ear. Derek does as told, shivering slightly as the motion lifts his shirt up to expose part of his stomach. Taking a step to put him almost flush with Derek’s back, the officer puts his left hand on top of Derek’s and locks them in place. The right one starts raking through Derek’s hair. It moves down and pulls along the back of his ears, down his neck and lands on the ball of his shoulder. Gripping the muscle firmly, the officer squeezes and pulls. Derek swallows down the plaintive sound threatening to escape from his throat. He's tired, been tired all week, and the asshole’s hands, fuck, his _hands_.

Work has been a hellish nightmare of hour-long phone calls, drives to the subcontractor two towns over and three instances of bounced checks. One kid’s been sick and the other in a strop all week. There simply hasn’t been time or energy when he and his husband finally make it to bed. And now here he is, after a week long dry spell, being felt up by some shithead with the most ridiculous hands Derek’s ever seen.

This is not good.

The man moves on to squeeze his bicep, patting and pressing down the length of Derek’s forearm, stopping at the cuff of his jacket. Then he travels back, and digs his fingers into Derek’s left shoulder. Derek shakes his head.

“Problem, Mr. Hale?” The officer places his palm flat against Derek's shoulder blade and leans in. His breath is humid against Derek’s neck.

“No. No, it’s fine.”

Fingers flit down along his spine and then fan out in line with his ribcage, checking his armpit and side. Sliding over his t-shirt, the hand moves up front and presses against Derek’s sternum, squeezing his pec, and Derek has to bite down on his lower lip to center himself. As the hand sweeps over his stomach, Derek can feel the man’s broad chest come in contact with his back. He shakes his head again, trying to chase away the instinctive arousal that's obviously starting to cloud his better judgment.

The man’s a dick, a complete and utter dick, he chants in his head.

The hand travels down, down to his waistband, two fingers dipping inside and pulling along the circumference all the way to the edge of his hip. Moving his fingers out of Derek’s pants, the officers presses his hand along Derek’s front pocket and Derek’s can feel his face burning up with embarrassment. Suddenly his hand slides down, cupping Derek's crotch and _squeezing_. Derek gasps, startled.

“What the fuck?”

“Standard procedure, Mr. Hale. This is as uncomfortable for me as it is for you.”

His grip moves over the front of Derek’s thigh and down his right leg, fingers digging into the muscle. He starts to kneel behind him but doesn’t let go of his grip on Derek’s hands, forcing Derek to tilt his head and arch his back. He strains, body bowing as one set of fingers pull at his hair and the other work their way down his ankle, lifting the pant leg to check his sock and shoe. Moving back up again, the officer skims the inside seam of his jeans before finally, _finally_ settling against Derek’s hip.

Derek swallows. He’s hard.

Fuck.

The officer’s grip on Derek’s hands tightens and then he’s cupping Derek’s ass, pushing his fingers into the back pockets. Derek grits his teeth as he’s brusquely felt up, along the inside of his thighs before the officer grips his crotch again, long fingers pulling along the crease to either side his groin. He almost chokes on his tongue as the hand digs firmly into his crack, pulling up towards his spine.

There’s no way the man didn’t notice his hard on and Derek pushes his chin against his chest, humiliation burning across his cheeks. The hand snakes around his left side and suddenly,

“You got something in your front pocket, Mr. Hale?”

What? Derek glances back, darting his eyes across the mirrors of the aviators. Is this a joke? Then he realizes he does have something in his front pocket. A confiscated Star Wars figurine. Leia, possibly?

“Sorry, it’s a toy, I can,” he makes a move, unthinkingly, and is rewarded with a hard shove that presses him flat against the car. The nails of the hand wrapped around his bite into his skin.

“Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.”

The underlying threat in that dark voice sends shudders running down his neck and arms. He has to swallow hard against the lump in his throat. His cock is straining against the fly of his jeans.

The cop’s hand squeezes around both of his one more time before he slowly reaches down towards Derek’s front. As if he expects Derek to attack at any moment. As if Derek isn’t rooted to the ground, stock still under the weight of the man’s upper body pressing against his back.

Pulling Derek’s hips away from the Camaro, the Deputy’s left hand dives into his front pocket. It’s warm through the thin fabric of the pocket. Closing his fingers around the toy, the officer slides it out slowly. Derek has to bite the inside of his cheek as knuckles drag against the outline of his cock.

He’s fucked.

The hand moves away, around the man’s back, probably stashing the toy away somewhere Officer Ass deems safe. He swallows, waiting, expecting a pair of handcuffs to settle around his wrists.

Nothing happens.

Then the hand returns, slipping into his pocket again, fingertips ghosting along the head of his dick.

His deep moan fills the air around them.

An arm settles around Derek’s chest as fingertips dig into Derek’s thigh. He sags forward, resting his upper body weight heavily against the car, groaning. This isn’t happening.

“Something else in your pants, Mr. Hale?” says the officer, voice mocking as it caresses the side of Derek's throat. The arm across his chest squeezes. Derek is panting, frozen in the Deputy's embrace like a deer in headlights, but so fucking hard in spite of himself.

“What... what are you doing?” he manages between hitched breaths.

“Just my job.”

“More like... ah... sexual harassment,” the last word leaves his mouth on a long moan. The shame scalds his face and neck, hot and spicy.

“Not at all. Just making sure you’re not packing anything dangerous. Do you know how many police officers are killed every year during routine stops, Mr. Hale? 

Derek can’t believe the nerve of the guy.

“I’ve got nothing on me you... fucking asshole...” he pants out, trying to restore some sense of dignity. The fingers in his hair tighten and tug his head back viciously, making him whine weakly at the back of his throat.

“Careful now, Mr. Hale. You don’t want to make this any worse for yourself than it already is.”

Pushing Derek’s face flat against the roof of the car, the officer pulls Derek’s hips out further, leaving him completely bent over and vulnerable. Shoving one of his knees against Derek’s own, the officer forces Derek’s legs wide.

“Let’s see what’s in these pants.”

Clever fingers make quick work of his belt and fly, the plackets gaping as the waistband is pulled down in the back just past the swell of Derek’s ass. He’s about to protest, standing exposed as he is on the side of the road, but gets cut off even as he opens his mouth.

“You better keep still, Mr. Hale, or I’ll write you up for resisting a police officer as well,” the Deputy whispers, directly into Derek’s ear and Derek clenches his jaw shut, glaring over his shoulder but remaining still.

Satisfied that he won’t put up a fight, the Deputy uses his free hand to grab at Derek’s crotch firmly, working his fingers over Derek’s cock, now straining against his briefs. If he could hide his face, Derek would, humiliation and embarrassment and sick, sick pleasure rolling over him and making him sweat, skin flushing red. The hand palms along the sensitive stretch of skin between his ass and his crotch, pulling up firmly towards his balls. Derek doesn’t quite manage to swallow the cry.

“Well then Mr. Hale. Looks like you were telling the truth after all.”

The hand doesn’t move from his crotch. Derek’s panting, trying desperately not to push his hips into the heat of the other man’s palm.

The officer’s lips press up against Derek’s ear, hissing darkly into the shell.

“For someone who was claiming sexual harassment just a moment ago, you seem to be enjoying this a lot, Mr. Hale.”

The fingers curl firmly around his cock again and Derek sobs brokenly at the sensation.

“Look at you. So much sass out of that mouth only to have you practically begging for it five minutes later. You’re kind of a slut, aren’t you, Mr. Hale?”

Derek shakes his head, even though he knows all the evidence suggests otherwise.

“I’m... not, I have a ... I’m married.”

“Doesn’t seem to make much difference right now.”

Derek groans as the hand around his cock pulls once up along the length and then rests against the base.

“I’ll... report you.” He pants out.

“Oh I don’t think so, Mr. Hale.”

The officer grabs hold of his wrists, pulling his hands apart. They’re a bit sore, and he curls his hands into fists twice to get the blood flowing. Pressing himself flush against Derek’s back, the officer places Derek’s palms against the roof of the Camaro, gripping them tightly before letting go. He can feel the man’s cock, hard and thick, pressing against the left cheek of his ass. Fuck.

“Don’t move.”

Derek can’t. His legs are lead.

One hand takes hold of his underwear, moving them down just in the back, leaving the skin of his ass exposed to the chill autumn air. Heat blossoms anew across his cheeks and he hides his face in the crook of his arm now that he can, whining lowly. Lips run down his neck as if to soothe him, one hand palming briefly at his cock before disappearing, rummaging around in the cop's jacket pocket by the sound of it.

Derek glances back briefly at the man who’s looking down, fiddling with something-- a tube? Then all at once, there’s a hand against the nape of his neck, pressing his cheek onto the roof of the car while the other slips inside his crack. There’s a wet finger at his hole and Derek suddenly can’t fucking see straight, let alone think. He moans helplessly as the tip circles along the puckered skin of his hole, spreading the lube around. Stupefied, dumbfounded, Derek doesn’t know what to do, can’t make himself move or string two words together even as the tip of the finger breaches him.

“Oh fuck,” he manages finally, a broken sob slipping from his lips. There’s a murmured “Mhm,” behind him.

The finger goes deeper. He fights not to put his claws through the Camaro’s roof. The wind tickles along the hair on the curve of his ass and the hand splayed against it crowds in closer, the digit pushing in as far in as it can go. He groans, shivering. He feels completely exposed, vulnerable out here under the open sky.

“Spread your legs more,” the man says against the skin just below his hairline, and Derek does, he does, moaning like he was made for it and spreading his feet wider for this man with his finger in Derek’s ass.

More lube is being dripped into his cleft and another finger presses into his hole, pulling and stretching the rim, working him open. He hisses, wound up and teetering on his toes to resist pushing into the sensation. The Deputy's other hand moves up along his hip, caressing his chest like he's a skittish animal.

Derek sobs against his forearm. He's helpless in the face of the pleasure racking his body, in spite of the fear of getting caught and the shame he feels from standing on the road with his ass out in the open air like a two bit whore. Fists clenching against the onslaught of sensory input, Derek can feel his wedding band bite into the skin along his first knuckle. Not just a whore, but a cheating one, too.

The man kisses his neck and cheek as if sensing his inner turmoil, spreading more lube on his fingers until they’re dripping wet. Then he slips a third one into Derek’s body. He cries out as the Deputy curls them, stroking carefully against his prostate.

He’s leaking, a wet spot fanning out across his briefs from the tip of his cock. Wetter than he remembers being in his entire life. The pleasure sparks up from his tailbone, all the way up to the base of his skull and he shakes with the force of it. The man’s fingers are firm, milking him relentlessly, expertly, and black dots blot his vision.

Something inside him breaks.

Derek groans and sticks his ass out further, uncaring, craving the man’s hands on his body, needing his fingers harder, deeper inside him. The free hand snakes up to twist his nipple hard and a cry bursts from his mouth, before he has a chance to bite down hard on his own fist.

Smiling against Derek's jawline, the officer presses the pads of his fingers against Derek’s prostate and moves them in a circular pattern that has sparks going off across Derek’s vision. His nipples are sore  from fingers pinching and pulling at them until the pain stays just a fraction longer in his skin than usual. He sobs into the corner of his elbow, hair starting to sag with sweat, and his cheeks running with tears at the sharp, electric pleasure that surges through his body, sparking along his skin.

He’s going mad with it, cock throbbing painfully, and he pulls at the smooth surface of his car, grasping futilely for some stability. The fingers in his ass won’t relent, kneading the gland inside him, pulling hitched moans and groans from deep in his chest. The front of his briefs are soaked through and when he looks down he can’t pull his eyes away from where the head of his cock is outlined in red against the milky white of the wet cotton.

Fingers dig into him, pulling him inside out, leaving him open and bare for the entire world to see. Except there’s nobody there, on the street running along the eastern border of the preserve. Just him and this man, the only two people in the world right now, both panting and shaking with an intensity of their own making.

There’s the tell tale clenching in his groin and Derek knows he’s not going to last much longer. The pleasure fans out along every limb of his body, electric surges of it licking along his spine and igniting inside his stomach. The fingers move faster and angle lower, milking him for all he’s got, greedy and demanding. He’s just about reached his limit, wavering on the edge of oblivion. The Deputy pulls him close, anchors him as he almost chokes on his own rapid breathing, lips kissing and murmuring soothingly as Derek climbs ever higher, white, searing pleasure lighting up his body.

“That’s it, that’s it. Let go.”

The voice, strong though breathless, takes him to a place of impossible, implausible calm before he plummets over the edge and implodes.

A cry, shrill and hoarse, is all he manages as his body clenches, pulses, every single muscle cramping while come oozes through the fabric of his briefs. His head falls back against a steady shoulder and for a moment, an hour, all he can do is ride the wave, letting it crash and roll over him. Burying his face in the crook of the other man’s throat, he sobs quietly, tumbling down from his high.

He’s shaking like a leaf.

They stand there for what feels like eternity but is more likely a couple of minutes, just breathing and swaying slightly with the breeze. Two heavy hands run up and down Derek’s chest, his sides, raking through his hair and down the backs of his thighs.

The world has regained all its proper shapes and colors when booted feet nudge his legs together. The zip of a fly coming undone pierces the fog in Derek’s head.

He groans at the feeling of the man’s wet cock trailing up and down his crack, once, twice, before pushing down between his thighs, slipping in along his taint. Derek keeps his legs closed tight, trying his best even through the haze of his afterglow to create a snug space for the officer to fuck into. He moans hungrily against the man’s mouth as he captures Derek’s lips in a kiss. Hands travel down his arms to the backs of his own, lacing their fingers together as the Deputy's hips pick up speed, the sound of skin slapping against skin loud in the still air around them. The wet, panting breath against his neck makes Derek shiver and he pushes back further, wanting to be used like this, exactly like this, right here, right now.

He tells the Deputy as much and the man’s moan burns against his throat as come leaks down the inside of Derek’s thighs for the second time today. He feels drunk, or maybe high, and tilts his cheek against the shoulder, gaze flickering to a distracting glimmer of light. Twin gold rings glint in the sun.

Resting his forehead against Derek’s temple, Stiles pushes his lips against the corner of Derek’s mouth before moving him gently to the side and opening the passenger door. Ducking inside, he gets wet wipes out of the glove box. He cleans Derek up thoroughly before tucking him back inside his jeans. Derek is glad to just let him, bone tired. Turning him around gently, Stiles kisses Derek’s lips, his cheeks, his chin, cradling his face in both hands.

“Fuck Derek, that was amazing. You looked fucking...” Stiles cuts himself off to kiss Derek’s face again.

“Was it as good for you as it was for me?” he asks finally with a cheeky grin.

Derek snorts but does an awful job keeping an answering grin off his face.

“Better, until right now.”

“Hey, is that any way to talk to your husband on date night?”

“I’ll talk to my husband however I feel like.”

“Is that so?”

Stiles captures his lips in a demanding kiss, sucking at his lower lip. Derek moans.

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly, “it is.”

Stiles hums, smiling teasingly.

“Anyone around to report us for public indecency?”

Derek snorts and focuses. There’s a family of deer moving around about a mile up ahead, not far from the house. Other than that it’s just birds and insects.

“We’re good. The only car to come close passed by when you took your Star Wars toy out of my pocket. Annie tried to smuggle it to the sleep over.”

“I was wondering why you had Leia on you. And it’s a figurine Derek, and a very valuable collector’s item at that, _God_.”

Derek rolls his eyes and pulls his hand through his husband’s hair, removing the glasses to look into warm, brown eyes smiling back at him.

“Now tell me. Honestly. Was it okay? Did reality live up to the fantasy?” Stiles’ arms curl around his chest, gaze searching for answers in Derek’s face.

He shakes his head. For someone so bright, Stiles can be incredibly stupid.

“Above and beyond the call of duty, Deputy Stilinski.”

“You know me, I’m all about the protect and _serve_ ,” Stiles says, wagging his brows.

Derek groans loudly into his shoulder but can't help the laugh that bubbles out, bright and warm as the sun setting beyond the trees.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains pre-negotiated, fully consensual non-con play and simulated sexual harassment. Also contains slight humiliation kink.
> 
> Concrit and comments always welcome! Hit me up on tumblr if you like TW meta @shipsanddip


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